


the college years

by winterfire22



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drinking, Gen, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Mentions of violence (non graphic), POV Dean Winchester, Pre-show, dean winchester being lonely and emo, dean winchester brother stuff, dean-centered, i love jess the writers accidentally wrote the perfect partner for sam, sam winchester college stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28228365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfire22/pseuds/winterfire22
Summary: a peak into what dean got up to during sam's years at stanford. starts with sam leaving for college, ends at the beginning of the pilot episode. a sort of character study of dean's relationship with his little brother and how it changes.sep 2001 - oct 2005early 20s sam and dean live in my mind rent free
Relationships: Dean Winchester & John Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	the college years

September 2001

He’ll be back. He’ll be back because family comes back.

Dean sits on the hood of the Impala alone, a half-finished beer in his left hand. Thanks to the light pollution of the nearby Oregon city, he can barely see the stars. But he knows they’re up there. And he knows Sam will be back.

So he can play Ivy League nine months out of the year, Dean figures, sipping his lukewarm beer. And then for three weeks in December and three months over summers, he’ll be back. And they’ll hunt together just like they always do. 

Distance from John Winchester-- that’s something Dean can understand. Hell, he’s felt that desire enough times. But, he wonders, a loose breeze prickling the skin on the back of his neck as it passes-- 

( _what did I do?_ )

+

October 2001

Ghosts are no big deal, not to a hunter with fifteen years of experience under his belt. Not to someone as tough as Dean Winchester. He walks away without so much as a scratch.

He’s only been in Elko, Nevada, for about six hours, and it’s his first visit, and he left the car four or five blocks away-- but he finds it easily, his feet remembering where to turn, his eyes remembering where to look. He’s always had a sixth sense for the car. 

The black car, the white gun, the gold amulet. He’d like to think part of that sixth sense, that homing beacon, is also tied to his little brother. But maybe it isn’t anymore.

Or maybe it is. Because like clockwork, he unlocks the Impala and slides into the driver’s seat just in time for the chunky cell phone in the glove compartment to start ringing. He reaches for it.

"Hello."

"Hey, Dean," Sam’s voice comes from the other end.

He grins, leaning back against the seat, and adjusts the phone to a more comfortable position. "Sammy. How’s it going, college guy? Have you been black out drunk yet? Met any cute co-eds?"

"I’ve been busy with classes," Sam answers. Dean can practically hear the eyeroll. "I just wanted to check in. Let you guys know I’m alive and all."

"Nice," Dean says easily. "Are dorms as wild as they look in the movies?"

"No."

"Roommate cool at least?"

"He’s an exchange student from Iceland. His name is Magnus."

"Magnus? What is he, a condom brand?"

"Dean, come on."

"Is the food okay?"

"It’s not bad. The coffee is mostly water."

"Ha."

"How are you guys doing?"

"I just bagged a ghost infestation," Dean answers. "Fuckin’... twin girl ghosts, just like The Shining, all vengeful ‘cause their dad ganked ‘em."

"Huh," Sam says stiffly.

Dean blinks. Change the subject, change the subject, what else-- "Uh, but I’m done with that now. I’m in Nevada. Thinking of hitting up Vegas for the weekend while I wait for Dad to catch back up with me."

(he almost says, hey, that’s not far from you, is it-- what if you met me there? but then again sam is only eighteen, and he’s probably busy.)

"That sounds like a good time," Sam says. "Listen, Dean, I gotta go. They’re about to put the dinner stuff out in the dining hall and I’m meeting my lab partner to eat together."

"Oh, yeah. Cool. Have fun. I’ll tell Dad you say hey."

"Talk to you later." Sam hangs up.

The car empties. Fingers almost frantic, Dean twists the key in the ignition and mashes at the radio button.

+

March 2002

The phone call wakes him up, and he shuffles to reach for the cell phone, still a little bit drunk. 

"Hello," he says blearily, rubbing his eyes with a clumsy hand.

"Hi. It's me."

Dean wakes up a little more, pulling air into his lungs, sitting up even though it sends his head spinning. "Hey, Sammy! How ya doin?"

"Pretty good. You sound like you just woke up."

Dean glances to the half-empty whiskey bottle on the nightstand. "I did."

"It's noon on a Thursday."

"I went to sleep at 6 in the morning," he points out.

"Right." Sam half chuckles, and Dean can practically hear the lopsided grin that goes along with a Sam chuckle. 

"So what's going on? What's new with you?"

"Well, actually, I started seeing someone."

"A girlfriend?"

"Yeah. I mean, we don't have the label yet, but I'm going to ask her this weekend. Her name's Jessica. She lives on the floor above me. My friend introduced us."

"Look at you. All grown up, dating a real live girl. What's she like?" Dean asks, taking a handful of the front of his tee shirt and sniffing it. He makes a face. First priority after the call is a shower and some fresh clothes.

"She's awesome, Dean," Sam says earnestly. "She's so cool. She's really nice and smart and she always makes me laugh."

"She hot?"

"Yeah."

"Blonde or brunette?"

"Curly blonde."

"That's awesome. Good for you."

"How are you and dad?"

Again, Dean glances to the liquor bottle. He considers the hangover he already feels blooming in his head, replays the scene of himself stopping at a liquor store to pick it up last night as the sun went down, feeling dead behind the eyes and sick. When he rolled into Fort Worth, Texas, two days ago, he'd thought it was for a case of demonic possession. Turned out there was no demon. Just a normal guy who really wanted to murder his wife and two little kids without any supernatural interference.

(how am i doing, he repeats in his head. tv static fills his consciousness.)

"Been a minute since I've seen Dad. He's working a long case in Concord, Massachusetts." He almost mentions that it's a nest of vampires, but stops himself just in time. 

"Where are you?"

"Texas. I'm gonna head out today though. The case is done and I'm sick of the place."

He reaches for the whiskey bottle. Turns it around in his hand for a moment before putting it back down. 

(coffee. you need coffee.)

"Nice. Glad you're doing good," Sam says absently. "I gotta go, I got class."

"Good luck with the girl. Take care of yourself," Dean instructs, still staring at the bottle.

The call goes dead.

+

July 2002

Every month, somewhere between the fourteenth and sixteenth, Sam calls. Every thirty days Dean gets a few minutes, a sliver of a chance to be a big brother instead of a hunter or a son or a one night stand. Maybe Sam didn't want to come home for winter break, maybe he ended up taking a couple summer classes so he had to stay at Stanford for the summer too-- but he always calls.

When the middle of the month comes, Dean is balls deep in a vengeful spirit job with his dad. He doesn't mention Sam to John much. Didn't like the look that came across his father's dark eyes the first time he brought the kid up after he left for college. So he doesn't mention that Sam should've called by now.

Then it's the seventeenth, and they pack up and leave Wyoming in their rearview mirrors, Dean following John's truck in the Impala, the radio off, just in case.

Then the twentieth comes and passes.

Sam has never been this late before.

Dean is already driving south. He and John had split up again, with two jobs in opposite directions, two different cases of mysterious deaths. He's supposed to be headed to New Mexico. But Sam hasn't called. And since he just uses the dorm phones, Dean can't exactly call him. 

So he goes southwest instead of straight south. And he makes it to the town of Stanford just as the sun is setting on the twenty-second.

He doesn't know what he's doing. Has never been to campus. He drives around until he finds the guest parking by the bookstore and he pulls into a spot, locking the car, heading toward the residential area with his pearl-handled colt down the back of his jeans.

(could this place be any fucking bigger?)

For the dead of summer, the college campus is a lot more awake than Dean would have expected. Even though it's about five thousand degrees, people are sitting around the grassy areas, textbooks or laptops open, talking and laughing with friends, sipping smoothies or pop.

"Scuse me," Dean says, approaching a pair of cute girls sitting on a bench with textbooks, "you know a guy named Sam Winchester? Brown hair, blue eyes, about seven feet tall?"

"Nope," one of the girls says. The other shakes her head.

"He's my kid brother," Dean explains for no reason. "He lives in a dorm here, one with uh…"

(i don't know a damn thing about his dorm.)

"One of the dorms," he finishes.

"Sorry," the second girl shrugs.

"Thanks anyway."

It's getting dark. 

There really isn’t much that scares Dean, but he can feel his pulse in his throat. Can feel his ears going numb. Because this supernatural shit, it follows you around. It’s not something you can just walk away from. It doesn’t release you that easily. And Sam is out of practice and out of weapons.

He turns a corner and finds himself in the courtyard of one of the dorms. Young men and women are sitting around, standing around, talking, laughing, drinking. Music plays from a chunky boom box on a table. There’s a couple guys sitting on the ground a couple feet away-- he moves toward them to ask if they know Sam. But then he catches a small sound, loosed into the air, that freezes him. Familiar laughter, but edged with something Dean has never heard on it before.

Carelessness. That’s what it is. Freedom.

His eyes land on his brother, towering above the other students he’s circled up with. He watches a pretty girl with curly blonde hair approach Sam with two beers. Watches him lean down to kiss her.

He stands there for a few beats, frozen, silent, watching. Waiting for Sam to notice him back. It doesn’t happen.

Finally, Dean turns away. Eyes on the ground, he lets his feet carry himself back to his car. He needs to get to New Mexico.

+

August 2002

He’s driving when his phone rings, smack in the middle of a case. He fumbles to turn the radio off and reaches for the phone.

“You got Dean.”

“Hey, Dean,” Sam’s voice comes.

He blinks. “Sammy. Hey. You doing okay?”

“Yeah, totally good. Just gearing up for the new quarter to start.”

“Right,” Dean says slowly. He weighs his options. “How come you didn’t call last month?”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t call me to check in like you usually do.”

“Oh. Sorry. Slipped my mind, I guess. I’ve been really busy with school and this trip to Jessica’s family’s lake house.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Yeah. It was great.”

Dean hesitates, almost running a red light. “Sammy, you kinda scared me last month. Made me think something might’ve happened.”

“I’m not out hunting, Dean. I’m on a college campus. Nothing bad is going to happen to me,” Sam dismisses. “Anyway, if something bad did happen, Jess would call you. I have your number written down in my planner so she would be able to find it easy and she’d call. So don’t worry about me.”

“Sam…”

“What?”

“Nothing. Never mind. I uh, I’m driving, and I’m trying to find this one warehouse, so I gotta go. Take care of yourself. Good luck with school starting and all.” 

“Okay. Bye.”

He hangs up, eyes firm on the road, hands so tight around the steering wheel his knuckles go white.

+

November 2002

After that, it’s another month and a half before Dean hears from his little brother again. And that phone call is shorter than ever. Just a brief “I’m alive, by the way I’m moving in with Jess”. Dean asks for the address so he can send a house warming present. Not that he has any experience with stuff like that. But he’s seen movies.

Sam gives it to him. Dean writes it down on the back of a gas station receipt with a motel pen he’d fished out of the glove box. He sends them a throw blanket, a box of Whoppers, and a box of microwave popcorn from the Target in Huntington, West Virginia.

Then, an hour after he mails off the package, he ganks a Bigfoot wannabe forest monster with his dad.

“Why were you at the post office earlier?” John asks as they pass a bottle of whiskey back and forth on the hood of the Impala after the monster slaying.

“Sending something to Sammy,” Dean admits, mostly because he already has a few drinks in him.

John is quiet for a beat. He takes the bottle from Dean. Swigs it hard.

“He talk to you ever?”

“Uh, yeah.”

John hands the bottle back. Dean accepts it. Takes a swig.

“He doing okay?”

“He’s doing good. College is going good and he’s moving in with his girlfriend.”

“Oh. Good for him.”

Dean hazards a really quick sideways glance in his father’s direction. 

(he’s gonna say something he’s gonna say something just wait)

“Of course, he still ditched out on us. So I wouldn’t expect him to call.”

(there it is.)

Dean’s chest tightens hard. Alcohol, it always makes him more sensitive. He drinks to numb himself but it’s a waste of fucking time. That may work for John, but it doesn’t do shit for him. If anything he feels more. He just has an easier time holding it in and putting it aside for a minute or two. He’ll cry in the shower or something. It doesn’t matter.

“Yeah, well, it ain’t always rosy, what we do,” Dean hears himself say. Then he braces himself again. Because he didn’t mean to admit that.

“Nobody ever fucking said it was,” John snaps. He gulps the whiskey. There’s a fraction of an inch left. He shoves it at Dean, who downs it easily. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

+

February 2003

Dean is in a dinky town in southern Washington when he catches wind of a suspicious death in Palo Alto, California-- a girl found dead in her apartment, no signs of a break in, her pituitary gland nowhere to be found. All signs point to a kitsune. He'd know-- he hunted one a few years back.

As he reads the newspaper article about the murder, tucked into the driver’s seat of his car, he frowns. Palo Alto. Isn’t that basically Stanford?

He has maps of most states in the trunk of the car. He already has the west coast map up front in the glove box, thanks to the Washington case he’d closed a few days ago. So he fishes it out and checks. Yeah. Palo Alto is his kid brother’s back yard.

Sam might be working the case. Maybe he needs backup.

Without another thought, Dean puts the newspaper and the map on the empty passenger seat and he starts driving south.

He stops as little as possible, electing to nap slumped against the window whenever he feels like he needs it, stopping at gas stations a few times for snacks and to clean up a little bit in the bathroom. He makes it to Palo Alto in record time.

Sam has a landline of his own now. Dean almost calls. But he figures if Sam is working the kitsune case already, they’ll run into each other on the job.

It takes Dean two days to find the killers. There had been another murder while he was driving down from Washington. An older lady living alone in the same apartment building as the first victim. He stakes the place out and catches the kitsune on his way up the fire escape for thirds in the middle of the night.

The case is closed. The third murder is prevented. He picks up a six pack and some airplane bottles of Jack Daniels on his way back to his motel room. Downs the first beer in about three minutes, and cracks open a second right away. He sips this one slower. Uses it to chase the first Jack shooter.

Five minutes away from Stanford, and Sam hadn’t even tried hunting the thing. 

(maybe sammy doesn’t even know about it. maybe he’s been too busy with school to keep up with the news.)

Benefit of the doubt, and all.

He finishes his second beer and downs the second airplane bottle he’d picked up. By the time all the alcohol kicks in, he’s already halfway to the college campus.

Sam’s apartment building is only a couple blocks away. He’s never been before, but he finds it easily. Apartment number 42, on the fourth floor, the first door on the right.

He knocks on it, his face feeling warm.

Heavy footsteps. It’s Sam, not his girlfriend. Good. The door opens, and there’s Dean’s kid brother, more stubble at his jaw than he had last time they saw each other, somehow taller than Dean remembers.

“Dean,” Sam says, blinking. He glances over his shoulder into his apartment, for some reason. “What, uh… what’s going on?”

“Can I come in?” Dean asks gruffly.

“Uh, yeah.” Sam steps aside. Dean wanders in.

It’s a small apartment, but it’s nice. Decorated with aggressively normal furniture and framed pictures of Sam and Jess and some people who must be Jessica’s family. Couch, coffee table strewn with textbooks and pens and notebooks and a calculator. TV playing National Geographic on low volume.

Sam follows Dean into the living room. Lets the door fall shut. The brothers regard each other for a moment, five or six feet and lots of unwritten tension between them.

“You hear anything about the murders in Palo Alto?” Dean asks after a heavy pause.

“Yeah. The girl was a student here,” Sam answers.

“What all did you hear about her death?”

“Just that it happened.”

“So you didn’t know about the missing pituitary glands?” Dean asks stiffly.

Sam’s shoulders nudge backwards a degree. He tilts his chin upward. “I heard about that,” Sam admits, sounding almost like their father.

“And, what, you weren’t gonna do anything about it?”

“I’m not a hunter anymore, Dean,” Sam huffs. 

“Lives were at stake, Sammy. It wasn’t just that one girl. Another lady died too while I was driving down to take care of it. You could’ve been there in minutes.”

“I knew someone would show up,” Sam says. “And someone did. You took care of it. So why is this on me, huh?”

“Because that lady didn’t have to end up six feet under,” Dean says, louder than he means to, static filling his ears for a second.

Sam’s eyebrows rise. He scoffs. “Are you drunk?”

“Who cares? I’m right and you fucking know it, Sammy.”

“You should go,” Sam suggests. “Jess is going to be home any minute. I don’t need a drunk guy yelling about monsters when she gets here.”

“Sammy, you could have saved that person.”

“No, Dean, I couldn’t have. I don’t have a gun. I don’t have a knife other than the tiny one on my damn key chain. And I’m out of practice! I couldn’t have done anything.”

“That’s crap, Sam.”

“I really think you should go.”

Dean stares his little brother down for another second. His eyes have gone hard. He’s not going to budge. He’s just going to get madder, and maybe Dean is upset, but that doesn’t mean he wants Sam to be.

“Fine,” he says, rubbing at his mouth. “If that’s what you really want. But if something happens nearby again and you know it’s supernatural, you at least fucking call someone if you aren’t going to take care of it yourself.”

“Okay,” Sam says with a weird lightness in his voice. He’s not going to. Dean can tell.

But he doesn’t push the issue. He leaves. He passes Jessica on his way out. She doesn’t recognize him-- she has no way of knowing what he looks like.

He shuts himself in the Impala. He drives sloppily back to his motel. He crashes on the bed, fully clothed, on top of the covers, hands fisted, screwing his eyes shut hard until he falls asleep.

+

May 2004

Sam hasn’t called since Dean showed up after hunting the kitsune in Palo Alto. For a while, Dean kind of thinks he’s never going to see his brother again. After all, he never did end up coming home to hunt during school breaks.

But now he’s about to turn twenty-one. And Dean is in a small town in the panhandle of Oklahoma anyway. Stanford isn’t too far. He can make it in two days, easy.

He stops at a grocery store once he hits the California border. Grabs a six pack of his favorite Mexican beer and a small cake which he has the bakery lady write ‘Happy 21st Birthday Sam’ on in blue icing. 

Maybe he didn’t think this through.

As he carefully sets the cake box and beer in the passenger seat, his cell rings.

“Hello.”

“Dean.” It’s his father. “Where are you? I got a case in Georgia I’m heading to. I could use your help with it.”

“Uhh…” Dean glances over his shoulder at the half-empty parking lot. He blinks. Turns back to his car. “I’m in California,” he admits. “Don’t think I could make it in time.”

“Shit,” John huffs. “Great.”

(how was i supposed to know you’d need me in georgia)

“I’m real sorry.”

“You working a case?”

“Yeah,” he lies, the back of his neck burning a little. He gets into his car. Buckles his seatbelt. “Or, I mean, I’m on my way to the case.”

“Where is it?”

“Ferndale,” he improvises.

“Ferndale? Are you stupid? We just worked a case there.”

“That was when I was seventeen, Dad. It’s been like eight years. I’ll pick up some fake glasses or something on the way.”

“Don’t get your ass caught.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright. Guess I’m on my own in Georgia. Let’s meet up in between sometime next week. Say Dallas, Texas.”

“Yes, sir. Sounds like a plan.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

The line goes dead.

Dean rubs at his face before starting the car. He didn’t really intend on driving all the way to California just to turn around and drive right back to the southwest where he’d just been, but whatever. He’s not one to say no to his father.

He drives the last few hours and makes it to Stanford in the early evening. Makes it to Sam’s apartment.

He stands on their welcome mat for almost a full minute before he decides what to do.

He doesn’t knock. He leaves the 6 pack of beer and the box of cake in front of their door. And he leaves. 

+

October 2005

Dean goes back and forth in his head about a hundred times during the drive to California.

He hasn’t seen Sam or even heard his voice over the phone in almost two years. Not since the argument.

(the stupid argument)

Dean exhales hard, nudging his turn signal on so he can get off the highway. He’s going to Sam’s apartment, and this time, he’s not going to wimp out of it. He can’t. He needs Sam’s help.

(i could call bobby again)

He rubs at his face, one hand on the wheel. He doesn’t want to call Bobby. He wants Sam to help. John is Sam’s dad too. He should at least know the guy is missing.

Dean’s chest is heavy with worry, and has been for days. It’s been weeks since he talked to his father on the phone, almost two months since they’ve seen each other-- they usually hunt together about half the time, and when they’re apart, it’s phone calls every couple days to update each other. This isn’t normal. It’s not right. Gone with no explanation. And now the weird voice mail?

Dean has exhausted the possibilities he can think of. Sam’s always been better with confusing analytical questions anyway. 

(he might refuse to come. he’ll probably refuse to come. won’t wanna leave dream girl.)

Dean really, really hopes he can convince his brother to help him out. He’s sick of his family being scattered all over the damn country. Maybe this is the opportunity he’s been looking for. The excuse to get his kid brother back in his passenger seat. And they’ll find their dad together, and then maybe--

He’s getting ahead of himself.

He pulls the Impala off the exit ramp and into the city, the streetlights getting caught between his eyelashes as he slows the car down to a comfortable 30 miles an hour.

It’s the middle of the night, but it’s a Friday, and it’s Halloween weekend. He’ll be up. It would be ridiculous if he wasn’t. He’s in college, not a retirement home.

So Dean parks at Sam’s apartment building and heads for his brother’s door.

It’s unlocked.

“Dumbass kid,” Dean huffs under his breath. “Lock your damn door.”

He lets himself in, repeating a silent prayer to no one in particular.

(please agree to come with me, sammy. family is supposed to come back.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please leave a comment :)
> 
> if you want in on my really fun supernatural discord server, dm me s'nat#4736


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